


a lucky hit

by espritneo



Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (with an axe), Ficlet, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espritneo/pseuds/espritneo
Summary: Prompt: If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: Dumpster Diving for Inspiration [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007811
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39
Collections: Genuary 2021





	a lucky hit

_Oh fuck, that hurt!_ Even as he registered the pain, Bond had already anticipated Baker’s surprise. Twisting to the left and gasping as the wound contorted, Bond wrenched the axe from Baker’s lax grip and used the momentum and weight in an overhead slice. The blunt edge smashed Baker’s shoulder socket as he belatedly dodged and he yelped and clutched his useless arm. There was no stopping Bond now; he swung himself and the axe around, this time the sharp edge facing forward and together, they crashed into the wall, barely missing his target. He lashed out with his left foot, striking Baker in the lateral collateral ligament and sending him to the floor.

Bond wheezed in precious air, yanked the axe out of the wall and one-handedly let its weight and his weight, decapitate before the man could register his fall.

 _What a mess,_ he thought in disgust, turning away from the growing puddle and the splatters on the wall. He had to look gruesome, hands and face coated in blood. And there was no saving this suit. He made it five steps before his knees gave out and his chin attacked the floor with the entire force of his dead weight. 

His brain shrieked in agony.

Miraculously, he avoided biting his tongue. He had no idea how much time had passed and how much he had left. It was difficult to compartmentalize when he couldn’t breathe and Bond surrendered to his training. He couldn’t hear anything; it was probably safe enough to keep his eyes closed. His limbs were clumsy but operational. He palpated the wound and expanded his ribcage, working to pull against an internal pressure. Oh, that was a problem. It felt deep and large enough that he probably nicked a lung and there was definitely liver damage. 

He opened his eyes without meaning to and stared blindly at the ceiling, coming back to himself to find his eyes were wet. With sweat? It burned his eyes and he blinked rapidly. This was his reality. He was bleeding out, slowly and uncontrollably. He lost his trainee before the chase got underway. His earpiece was dead.

More time could have passed; the blood loss wasn’t hitting him yet, so realistically, only a few seconds. The left arm of his jacket was torn; he had to use the arm on his injured side, but slowly, patiently, working with the pain instead of against it, he freed the sleeve, balled it up and jammed it under his shirt, using his belt to apply pressure.

His best shot was getting out before he lost any more blood. He tried to roll onto his knees and succeeded in crumpling onto his side. _The quartermaster,_ his brain giggled hysterically as he struggled to stand, _will be furious with the property I've lost._ A Glock 17, lost on the leap to the lorry. A Walther PPK, kicked out of his hands in a stairwell. Earpiece, dead since his jump and roll off the motorcycle. A 007, missing and soon to be status inactive, felled by an untrained fighter with a lucky axe.

In the end, his leaden limbs made the final call. He’d barely wiggled into the hallway and what a waste; the room had at least been defensible and had a weapon. Bond mentally sighed; he’d either die here or he’d get a second wind, no point worrying overmuch. 

_Sometimes, 007, your logic is incomprehensible,_ M-the-former would probably say.

His shirt and jacket felt cold and so did his insides, the fire finally having burnt out. He dimly assessed that he was going into shock as his thoughts scattered again.

If it were the case that he wasn’t meant to come back from this outcome, as inconceivable as it was to even contemplate, there was nothing to miss him. England did not serve him and was not aware of him and the ways he lived and bled and died for her. Alec wouldn’t be told for months yet and by the time he returned from assignment, James would be weeks and months dead, buried and forgotten. Alec, poor sod, was coming back to an entirely new world: new M, new Q, absent 007.

Bill might remember him.

Q might feel pity. 

Fuck; pity was the last thing he wanted from Q. Competent Q, safe Q, utterly surprising genius little shit. His heart gave an irregular thump and his gut ached. If he’d been a better man, a better subordinate, Q might have reason to feel something kinder. Might have cause to miss him if only as a partner in crime, half of a team associated with pride and success.

M-the-former taught all her agents by example that regret was unprofessional. Regret got agents killed. Well, he was dying now, wasn’t he? What better time to revisit all those delightful regrets?

There really wasn’t a list. He regretted bringing M to Skyfall. He regretted falling in love six years too early and Christ, if only he’d known there was a worthy candidate down the line, he might not have thrown himself into trying to tame the wind. Q was Vesper in all the _best_ ways: clever, competent, untouchable. Q wasn’t Vesper in all the right ways: trustworthy, safe and steadfast, the strongest person he knew.

He regretted making love impossible between them.

He could...he could live with that regret. Not much longer anyways. That second wind wasn’t coming, although the building was getting loud and his only weapon…

...was an axe (too far).

...were his fists (too unreliable).

...was a watch.

"Complete loss of assets," he murmured. "Objective accomplished." He shakily unstrapped the watch, set the timer and used the last of his strength to toss it over the railing. "Put that on my headstone."

Still grinning to himself, a sharp-toothed macabre spectre of destruction, his eyes slipped closed.

\---

_He tread water just under the surface. He thinks his head occasionally broke through the waves, but the dark was ever present, clinging and drawing him down._

_The sun was artificially white, doubling and quadrupling._

\---

Hell, the heart monitor informed him. Bond was in white-walled, disinfectant covered hell.

"Am I dead?" He groaned. No one answered. He fumbled for his IV and tugged it free, rolling onto his good side and swinging his legs onto the floor. Still half blind with his eyes unused to the light, he managed to reach the door on instinct.

Junior agent Harris - the trainee that couldn’t keep up with him - was guarding the door.

“Is this a demotion?”

“No sir,” said Harris, ruefully, rising from his seat. “Although I’d not be surprised. I’m assigned to watch your room.”

“Stay.” Bond held up a hand. “And I’ll tell no one you can’t drive a motorcycle.”

\---

Out and in the heart of MI6’s medical wing, he had three goals: clothing, avoiding personnel and the exit. For the uninitiated, escaping Medical is an art, easily a social one that involved manipulating the residents. That was because leaving undetected while injured - the way Bond preferred to make his escapes - was much more difficult, almost a science. He’d bite anyone that made a crack about his age, but honestly, talking to another human being was the absolute last thing he wanted to do when he’s not safe and he’s not at his best.

So half-blind, and on weak bare legs, he made a beeline for the men’s locker room and stole a set of street clothes from Nurse Connelly (trousers) and Doctor Whickam (polo) while the majority of the residents were still, conveniently, at the morning staff meeting. His side ached like a wisdom tooth left untreated: hardly debilitating but determined to keep you aware of its existential crisis. The best way to accommodate this type of injury was the move into the pain, to flex into the comfortable range of motion and then use the sharp flare of pain to propel yourself forward. 

He managed to make it all the way to staircase 5 - closest to the taxi line - before he had to stop and rest. For the first time, he pulled up his shirt and inspected his side. There wasn’t much to see without undoing all the taping, but the soreness that was somehow twice as prominent on the surface suggested staples were keeping the wound closed. He pressed lightly on the wrapping and tried to feel if he had any stitches deep inside.

He was clothed, close to freedom, and there was nothing pressing that required his focus. He was alive and not quite ready to deconstruct that fact. He’d faced his regrets and was more than ready to put them back in the box. M had no reason to expect him until his side healed and if MI6 did try to reach him, his phone was conveniently in pieces on the motorway.

Mind made up, Bond attacked the single flight of stairs between him and London proper. 

There was a liquor store two blocks from his flat and they knew him well enough to have his credit card on file.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be resolved, but Bond is a chickenshit.


End file.
